Frumento
La paglia, il frumento. Wheat, trigo, paille, blé, heno.
A heap of hay, the Tuscan sunflowers, the vineyards on the way to Lake Garda, the golden fields bountiful with beauty to taste.
L'oro ispira ed il sapore ringrazia il tocco caldo delle gocce assolate, la coltre morbida della neve fresca.
Ascoltare con gli occhi il mare generoso delle spighe è un regalo fertile. Respirarne il riposo è una gioia. La convivencia entre la perfección y el movimiento perpetuo, vive.
Growing up I loved the summers when my grandparents' fields were sown with wheat. They have always chosen crop rotation, and naturally so.
I remember adventuring through crops taller than me and pulling the cobs naked to the sun that had grown them. Sometimes, a whiff of vapor would exhale as a fairytale of the last thunderstorm. How the 𝘤𝘩𝘪𝘤𝘤𝘩𝘪 𝘥𝘪 𝘮𝘢𝘪𝘴 - this sound tastes of 𝘱𝘰𝘭𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘢, 𝘻𝘢𝘭𝘦𝘵𝘪, 𝘵𝘢𝘤𝘰𝘴, 𝘱𝘢𝘴𝘵𝘦 𝘥𝘪 𝘮𝘦𝘭𝘪𝘨𝘢, 𝘤𝘦𝘤𝘢𝘮𝘢𝘳𝘪𝘵𝘪,... pronounce it with delightful abandon and 𝘥𝘪𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘵𝘪𝘴𝘴𝘦𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵 at once - How they'd line up perfectly, how the leaves would enfold them with intent, it's still all mesmerizing to me. It fills me with joy.
I would listen to the soy like a million maracas in the hands of the 𝘭𝘪𝘣𝘦𝘤𝘤𝘪𝘰 and I'd join them with mine, ready to lead the orchestra.
Wheat fascinated me the most.
The golden land, the waves of the wind through the ears of wheat, the smell of an infinite palette of tastes to be. The poppies that choose them as companions, in a brilliant marriage of timeless elegance. The sound of the grains, each departing for their own adventure between my fingers. I would rejoice in the details of each, none the same. The harmony of them all, perfect. I love how the straws look and feel under the feet once the harvest is done. I adore the bounce that a heap of hay acquires between sunny days and brief summer rains. With all of me, I want to make a hole in the middle of the bale and be lulled in the cocoon of its fragrance until the amplitude of the 𝘮𝘦𝘳𝘪𝘨𝘨𝘪𝘰 leaves, for coastal winds to meet the minerals shining through the soil turned over. Meanwhile, the earthworms return to work, each with the power of a thousand men, not shying away despite the call of the chicks learning to fly through the branches delimiting the fields. The tree frogs quiet in the streams, just so they can surprise their mates with tardive courtship. The butterflies flutter slowly, floating in the heat. The toad indulges in a solo and unapplauded, leaps to thicker grass, where the Typha gracilis weighs its sway as if tuning the choir to a tacit semibreve.
My relationship with the pleasures of the land transpires in my daily actions, in my way of doing business, leading, investing, creating, enjoying my land, and even teaching. It's part of me. It's a modus operandi.
As I prepare to summit the summer solstice and approach the harvest of projects sown over the years, I also celebrate my land as a place to enjoy.
